


He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

by Audrey_Lynne



Category: Rocketman (2019)
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Drug Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, I swear there's a little fluff in there, M/M, Self-Destruction, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Suicide Attempt, bros being bros, they're doing the best they can
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 10:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audrey_Lynne/pseuds/Audrey_Lynne
Summary: A series of moments between two dear friends, on the rollercoaster of their lives.  Fluff, angst, friendship...we've got it all here, folks.A few quiet scenes between Bernie and Elton, varying in tone (I did promise fluff) - when without an audience, they can be themselves.





	He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

**Author's Note:**

> I set out, intending this to be a “five moments” story, but it turned to seven because I couldn’t narrow down my choices. Hearing Bernie talk in an interview about how he listens to basically the same music, while Elton listens to everything, inspired me to use lyrics from other artists/works for this collection of scenes (including the title). Titles and artists are listed at the end of each part (there will be two).
> 
> As always, these portrayals are based on the characterizations in the film and are in no way meant to suggest or imply anything about the real individuals involved. Even if John Reid really is a jerk.

* * *

_Here we are, dear old friend…_

_You and I, drunk again…_

It wasn’t exactly comfortable, being shoved into bunk beds in Elton’s childhood bedroom, but Bernie still thought it beat dealing with Arabella’s fireworks every other day – sometimes more often. She had a short fuse, and it never took much to light it. Elton’s mother had her own set of landmines, but she got cold and quiet instead of exploding, and she was at least more obvious about what set her off.

Bernie and Elton rolling in trashed after a night at the pub was usually one of those things, but they’d managed by some miracle to get in quietly this time and now Bernie was lying in bed, half-asleep, listening to Elton mutter half-formed ideas for their next meeting with Dick James. “I was thinking, maybe…we write something about penguins. Who doesn’t love penguins?”

“You’re not even making _sense_ anymore,” Bernie groaned against his pillow. “Go to sleep.” He was going to, whether Elton did or not.

Elton rose, managing not to trip over Bernie’s jacket – which had never made it to the doorknob – on his way out of the room. The toilet flushed a few minutes later, and he returned, his train of thought undeterred. “So, I was thinking, Bern…”

“If you’re going to _think_ , do it downstairs. M’trying to sleep…” Bernie braced himself for the slight shaking of the bed as Elton climbed into the top bunk. It took him longer to wind down than Bernie needed, but he eventually did. What Bernie wasn’t ready for, however, was Elton’s entire weight to land on top of him. He managed to keep from yelping in surprise, but just barely.

“Too tired to get up there,” Elton explained, his voice syrupy with both the alcohol and exhaustion.

A good friend would have probably scooted over and made room, even in that tiny twin bed. Being Elton’s _best_ friend, Bernie cheerfully dumped him onto the floor and rolled back over to go to sleep.

“Bastard,” Elton murmured from the floor, but he didn’t manage to hide his laughter.

Bernie chuckled as well, finally going to sleep – and when Sheila chided them over breakfast in the morning about sounding like a herd of elephants, he offered contrite apologies while Elton managed to mostly ignore her, humming a tune to himself as he worked through it in his mind. Just another day in the life of two struggling songwriters…

* * *

_I’ll be your friend, your other brother,_

_Another love to come and comfort you…_

Bernie wasn’t entirely sure if trying to write when he was like this was helping or not, but he stubbornly focused on the page in front of him, scribbling down another line. 

_And I knew then that I lost_

“Lost? Lost what?” he asked himself, pausing to sip at the tea that had long since gone cold. 

… _what should have been found…_

Yes, that was it; it was coming together. Time would tell if this would end up in the discard pile like everything else he’d tried writing this morning or if he was finally onto something. Bernie sighed, setting the pen down and running a hand through his hair. The wound of his divorce was raw and open, and while he was trying to redeem _some_ creativity from this rollercoaster of emotions, it wasn’t always an easy process.

A door opened, then shut, and Bernie glanced over his shoulder. He wasn’t expecting anyone – the gardener, perhaps, but he rarely came inside – and, despite his dark mood, a smile crossed his lips as he saw who it was. “Elton.”

“Bernie, darling!” Elton grinned, in that way he did when he was intentionally laying it on thick, depositing two very expensive bottles of rosé on the kitchen table and sliding into the seat beside Bernie. He tried to peer over Bernie’s shoulder at the notebook. “Whatcha writing?”

Bernie closed the notebook, tsking at him. “No peeking. You’ll see it when it’s ready.” That was their process, after all – Elton never saw the lyrics until they were finished, and then Bernie sat back and let him do his thing. No need to change it now. It was, if anything, one of his familiar comforts at a time like this.

Elton nodded, moving to dig two wine glasses out of the cabinet. It was only early afternoon, but that had never stopped them before. He glanced back over his shoulder across the kitchen. “I suppose you want me to give you the usual best-mate platitudes…that you’re better off without her, that this will be good for you, that you’ll find someone even better?”

Bernie snorted. “Not particularly, no.”

“Good, because that’s a load of shit and we both know it.” Elton plopped back down beside Bernie, opening one of the bottles and pouring each of them a glass. “Well…hopefully, you _will_ find someone even better, but…it hurts like hell now and that’s all right. You might be better off without her, but what the hell do I know?”

Bernie slapped at Elton’s shoulder playfully. “You’re not helping.” But, really, he was. “Thanks for coming.” He hadn’t asked Elton to, and that, perhaps, made it even more meaningful.

Elton waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t mention it. I told you I’d give you a reason to regret giving me a key eventually.” He scooted closer, wrapping an arm around Bernie’s shoulders. “Love’s a bitch, man.”

“That it is,” Bernie agreed, nodding. “Not that I suppose _you’d_ know these days.” At least one of them was happy. Bernie still didn’t trust John Reid – something about the man just seemed suspect to him – but if Elton was content, he wasn’t going to complain. Since Reid had returned to London, he and Elton had been swept up in the whirlwind of new love. Despite his own pain, Bernie couldn’t begrudge Elton the happiness.

Elton smiled, that tiny smirk of self-satisfaction Bernie loved seeing on him. “Yes, well…sometimes one gets lucky, I suppose. I’m fortunate that the dating pool came to me. Can’t exactly go walking into the pub and yelling, ‘So who in here fancies boys?’”

Though Elton had a point, Bernie couldn’t help but laugh. It was hard to stay miserable when Elton was there, ready to drag him out of it kicking and screaming if necessary. “I suppose not.”

Elton shrugged, sipping at his glass of wine. He _must_ have been in a good mood, because he rarely took it slow when he wasn’t. “When you’re ready, I’m sure there will be some eligible young thing ready to throw her panties at you.”

Bernie reached for his own glass. “Don’t be crude.” He was hardly put out, though. 

Elton glanced at the notebook on the table. “Our next album’s going to be full of depressing songs about the one who got away, isn’t it?”

“Those sell, don’t they?” Bernie joked.

“Damned right they do.” Elton nodded. “Never forget – there’s always some poor bastard somewhere who’s just as miserable as you are.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Bernie tried to think of something profound to add about that poor bastard being who they were really writing for, but laughed instead as Elton poured more wine into his glass to refill it before it was even empty. “Trying to get me drunk so I’ll forget my problems, eh?”

Elton grinned cheekily. “What else are friends for?”

* * *

_It's over now, I'm cold, alone…_

_I’m just a person on my own._  


Elton was game for any new experience in life. Something he hadn’t tried yet? Absolutely, sign him up. And now he could add near-drowning and stomach pumping to the list. The drowning part hadn’t been so bad, actually. He had no idea if it had been the lack of oxygen to his brain or how high he was, but it had been almost…calming, as he’d floated to the bottom of the pool, watching people dive from above to save him. From there, though, it had been mostly downhill. His mother’s hysterical tears, John’s cold reprimands, the _terror_ in Bernie’s eyes…those were a blur, and he was glad for it, in a sense. It was easier _not_ to remember that clearly. As for getting his stomach pumped, that he _did_ remember, and it had been awful. Definitely not on his to-do list again.

Had he really wanted to die? Perhaps not at that moment, now that the drugs were mostly out of his system – which also left him raw and reeling. It had been a desperate cry for help, certainly, and he knew that if something didn’t change, he _would_ be dead soon, whether it was by his own hand or not. He was desperately unhappy; as much as he loved performing, the schedule was far too much to keep up with, and with John’s betrayal on top of it…

Maybe this would be the sign John needed, if he didn’t believe Elton’s words. If they just got through the shows this weekend – John would _never_ let him cancel that, on such short notice – then maybe he could rearrange some dates, take a week off, get himself sorted out.

The door to the hospital room opens, and Elton didn't bother to look up; he guessed it’d be John, having secured his discharge papers so he could go home and “rest” and hopefully avoid a media circus. To his surprise – and secret delight – the voice he heard wasn't Scottish, but that soft Lincolnshire accent he knew so well. “You look like hell, Reg.”

Elton scoffed. As much as he bristled sometimes at being addressed by his given name, he never really minded it from Bernie. It took him back to dark corners of seedy pubs, late-night whispers in his childhood bedroom, and the giddy exhilaration of that first show at the Troubador. “Just got back from there, actually.”

Bernie messed with one of the bedrails until he figured out how to drop it, sitting on the edge of the bed without hesitation. “How’re you feeling?”

“Oh, fan-fucking-tastic.” Had anyone else asked, Elton might have let them have it, but this was Bernie and he was probably only asking because he didn’t know what else to say. Give him a pen, paper, and a few hours, and he’d turn over a Grammy-worthy ballad, but he got awkward when put on the spot sometimes. 

Bernie nodded, then leaned forward, grabbing Elton in a tight hug. “You really scared the shit out of me this time.”

“M’sorry, Bern,” Elton stammered against his shoulder. He found it hard to play it cool when Bernie was this emotional. And emotional because of _him_ , not the disruption of schedules or plans.

“I know.” Bernie nodded, composing himself and sitting back on the bed. “I suppose you’re still doing the gig.” 

It was a testament to how well Bernie knew him that it hadn’t even been a question. Bernie’s expression suggested he didn’t think it was the best idea, but he also knew better than to argue. “Yeah, I figured, why not? Don’t want to disappoint the fans, and my voice has never been more moist…”

Bernie rolled his eyes, nudging Elton’s shoulder gently. He glanced toward the doorway, where John could be heard in the hallway. “I’d better go. We’ll talk later, though?”

“Sure, of course.” Elton nodded, sighing. Whatever Bernie intended to talk him into was probably for the best, but he somehow doubted he’d be able to go along with it. Bernie had that luxury; he could write from anywhere. Elton had shows, commitments…and a manager who didn’t let him forget it. As much as he longed to slow down, that didn’t seem to be in the cards just yet.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Songs used, in order:
> 
> Title: "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," by The Hollies
> 
> Scene Lyrics:  
> "Gay," by Stephen Lynch  
> "Song for a Friend," by Jason Mraz  
> "Not an Addict," by K's Choice
> 
> (The song Bernie's writing in the second part is "I Feel Like a Bullet (in the Gun of Robert Ford).")


End file.
